Arch of Triumph

by Erich Maria Remarque

  “Yes. Is something the matter?”

  “No. The heat. Not enough sleep.”

  Ravic saw Eugénie’s look. “It can happen, Eugénie,” he said. “Even to the righteous.”

  The room seemed to rock for a moment. A mad exhaustion. Veber went on sewing. Ravic automatically helped him. His tongue was thick. The palate was like cotton-wool. He breathed very slowly. Poppies, something in him thought. Poppies in Flanders. Red, open poppy blossoms, the shameless secret, life, so close beneath the hands with the knife; a trembling running down one’s arms, the magnetic contact, from far off, from a distant death. I can’t operate any more, he thought. This has to be settled first.

  Veber painted the closed incision. “Finished.”

  Eugénie lowered the foot end of the operating table. The stretcher was rolled out noiselessly. “Cigarette?” Veber asked.

  “No. I must leave. I’ve got to attend to something. Is there anything more to be done?”

  “No. Veber looked at Ravic with surprise. “Why are you in such a hurry? Do you want a vermouth and soda or something else cool?”

  “Nothing. I’ve got to hurry! I didn’t realize it was so late. Adieu, Veber.”

  He left quickly. A taxi, he thought when he was outside. A taxi, quick! He saw a Citroën approaching him and stopped it. “To the Hôtel Prince de Galles! Quick!”

  I must tell Veber he will have to get along without me for a few days, he thought. It won’t do. I’ll go crazy if I suddenly think during an operation that Haake may be calling at just that moment.

  He paid the taxi and walked quickly through the entrance hall. It seemed to take an endless time before the elevator came. He walked down the broad corridor and opened the door. The telephone. He lifted the receiver as if it were heavy. “This is van Horn. Have there been any calls for me?”

  “Just a minute, sir.”

  Ravic waited. The voice of the telephone operator came again. “No. No calls.”

  “Thank you.”

  Morosow came in the afternoon. “Have you had anything to eat?” he asked.

  “No. I was waiting for you. I thought we could eat here together.”

  “Nonsense! That would attract attention. Nobody eats in his room in Paris unless he’s sick. Go and have something to eat. I’ll stay here. No one will telephone at this time of day. Everyone is eating now. Sacred custom. Nevertheless, in case he should call I’ll act as your valet, ask for his number, and tell him you’ll be back in half an hour.”

  Ravic hesitated. “You are right,” he said then. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

  “Take your time. You’ve waited long enough. Don’t get nervous now. Are you going to Fouquet’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ask for the open ’37 Vouvray. I’ve just had some. First-rate.”

  “All right.”

  Ravic went down. He crossed the street and walked along the terrace. Then he walked through the restaurant. Haake was not there. He took his place at an empty table on the terrace beside the Avenue George V and ordered boeuf à la mode, salad, goat cheese, and a carafe of Vouvray.

  He observed himself as he ate. He forced himself to notice that the wine tasted light and sparkling. He ate slowly, he looked around, he saw the sky hanging above the Arc de Triomphe like a blue silk flag, he ordered a second cup of coffee, he felt its bitter taste, slowly he lighted a cigarette, he did not want to hurry, he sat for a while longer, he watched the people pass by, then he rose and walked across to the Prince de Galles and had forgotten everything.

  “How was the Vouvray?” Morosow asked.

  “Good.”

  Morosow got a miniature chessboard out of his pocket. “Do you want to play a game?”

  “Yes.”

  They put the chessmen into the holes in the board. Morosow sat down in a chair, Ravic was sitting on the sofa. “I don’t think I can stay here more than three or four days without a passport,” he said.

  “Has the office asked for it?”

  “Not yet. Sometimes they ask for passports with visas at the registration desk. That’s why I moved in at night. The night porter didn’t ask questions. I told him I’d need a room for five days.”

  “They aren’t so particular in exclusive hotels.”

  “If they should come and ask for my passport, it would be difficult.”

  “They won’t come for the time being. I inquired at the George V and the Ritz. Did you register as an American?”

  “No. As a Dutchman from Utrecht. It doesn’t fit the German name exactly. That’s why I changed it somewhat to be on the safe side. Van Horn. Not von. It will sound just the same when Haake calls up.”

  “Right. I still think it will work. You certainly didn’t rent one of the cheap rooms. They won’t bother about you.”

  “I hope not.”

  “It’s a pity you gave Horn as your name. I know of a perfect carte d’identité, valid for a year more. It belonged to a friend of mine who died seven months ago. At the coroner’s inquest we declared he was a German refugee without papers. So we saved the certificate and kept it valid. It does not matter to him to be buried somewhere as Josef Weiss. But two refugees have already lived on his papers. Ivan Kluge. Not a Russian name. The photo is blurred, taken in profile, unstamped, easily exchangeable.”

  “It’s better the way it is now,” Ravic said. “When I move out of here, Horn will no longer exist and there will be no papers.”

  “It would have been safer as far as the police are concerned. But they won’t come. They don’t come into hotels where one pays more than a hundred francs for an apartment. I know a refugee at the Ritz who’s been living there without papers for the last five years. The only one who knows about it is the night porter. Have you thought over what you are going to do if the fellows here should nevertheless ask for papers?”

  “Of course. My passport is at the Argentine Embassy for a visa. I’ll promise them to call for it next day. Then, I’ll leave the suitcase here and won’t come back. There is time for that. The first inquiry would come from the management, not from the police. I count on that. Only—then it would be all up, here.”

  “It will work.”

  They played until half past eight. “Now go and have a bite,” Morosow said. “I’ll wait here. Then I’ll have to go.”

  “I’ll eat here later.”

  “Nonsense. Go now and eat a decent meal. When that fellow calls you will probably have to drink with him first. In that case you’d better have had enough to eat. Do you know where you want to go with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “I mean, in case he still wants to see or drink something?”

  “Yes. I know a lot of places where everyone minds his own business.”

  “Go and have something to eat now. Don’t drink anything, eat heavy, fat things.”

  “All right.”

  Ravic walked across to Fouquet’s again. All this was not real, he felt. He must be reading it in a book or seeing it in a melodramatic movie, or he must be dreaming it. He walked by both sides of Fouquet’s again. The terraces were crowded. He checked on each individual table. Haake was nowhere.

  He sat at a small table next to the door so that he could watch both the entrance and the street. At an adjoining table two women were talking about Schiaparelli and Mainbocher. A man with a thin beard was sitting with them, saying nothing. On the other side a few young Frenchmen were discussing politics. One was for the Croix de Feu, one for the Communists; the others made fun of both of them. In between they all studied two beautiful, self-assured American girls who were drinking vermouth.

  Ravic watched the street while he ate. He was not stupid enough to disbelieve in accidents. Only in good literature are there no accidents; life was daily filled with the most absurd ones. He stayed at Fouquet’s for half an hour. It was easier this time than at noon. Once more he walked around the corner along the Champs Elysées and then back to the hotel.

  “Here is the key to your car,” M
orosow said. “I’ve exchanged it. Now it is a blue Talbot with leather seats. The other one had corded seats. Leather can be washed more easily. It is a cabriolet, you can drive with the top up or down. But always leave the window open. If you must shoot when the car is closed, shoot so that the bullet goes through the open window to avoid any bullet traces in the car. I’ve rented it for two weeks. On no account bring it back to the garage afterwards. Leave it in one of the side-streets. To air out. It is now parked in the Rue de Berri, opposite the Lancaster.”

  “Good,” Ravic said. He put the key next to the telephone.

  “Here are the registration papers for the car. I couldn’t get you a driver’s license. Didn’t want to ask too many people.”

  “I don’t need it. I drove the whole time in Antibes without one.”

  Ravic put the registration for the car next to the keys. “Park the car in a different street tonight,” Morosow said.

  Melodrama, Ravic thought. Bad melodrama. “I’ll do it. Thanks, Boris.”

  “I wish I could come with you.”

  “I don’t. This is the sort of thing one does alone.”

  “Come to my place and wake me up if I’m no longer in front of the Scheherazade.”

  “I’ll come in any case. No matter whether something happens or not.”

  “All right. So long, Ravic.”

  “So long, Boris.”

  Ravic closed the door behind Morosow. Suddenly the room was very quiet. He sat down in a corner of the sofa. He looked at the hangings. They were of blue material, with a border. He had come to know them better in these two days than any others with which he had lived for many years. He knew the mirrors, he knew the gray velours on the floor, with the dark spot near the window, he knew every line of the table, of the bed, of the chair covers—he knew everything so exactly that it made him sick; only the telephone he did not know.

  29

  THE TALBOT STOOD in the Rue Bassano between a Renault and a Mercedes-Benz. The Mercedes was new and had an Italian license plate. Ravic maneuvered the Talbot into the open. He was so impatient that he did not take sufficient care; the Talbot’s back fender touched the left mudguard of the Mercedes and left a scratch. He paid no attention. Without pausing he drove the car down to the Boulevard Haussmann.

  He drove very fast. It was good to feel the car in his hands. It was good against the dark disappointment that lay like cement in the pit of his stomach.

  It was four o’clock in the morning. He had intended to wait longer. But suddenly the whole thing seemed meaningless. Very likely Haake had forgotten the little episode a long time ago. Or perhaps he had not returned to Paris at all. Just now they had other things to do over there.

  Morosow was standing in front of the door of the Scheherazade. Ravic parked around the next corner and walked back. Morosow looked at him expectantly. “Did you get my telephone message?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I called up five minutes ago. A group of Germans is sitting inside. Four men. One of them looks like—”

  “Where?”

  “Next to the orchestra. It’s the only table with four men. You can see it from the door.”

  “All right.”

  “Take the small table by the door. I’ve kept it free.”

  “All right, Boris.”

  Ravic paused at the door. The room was dark. The spotlight was on the dance floor. A singer was standing in it, wearing a silver dress. The small cone of light was so strong that one could not recognize anything beyond it. Ravic stared at the table next to the orchestra. It was not discernible. The wall of white shut it off.

  He took a seat at the table next to the door. A waiter brought a carafe of vodka. The orchestra seemed to lag. The sweet mist of melodies was creeping, creeping, slow as a snail. J’attendrai. J’attendrai.

  The singer bowed. Applause broke out. Ravic bent forward. He waited for the spotlight to be cut off. The singer turned to the orchestra. The gypsy nodded and took up his violin. The cymbals threw a few muffled notes into the air. The second song. La chapelle au clair de lune. Ravic closed his eyes. It was almost unbearable to wait.

  He sat upright again, long before the song was ended. The spotlight was cut off. The lights on the tables came on, glowing. At the first moment he could see nothing but indistinct contours. He had stared into the spotlight too long. He closed his eyes and then looked up. He found the table at once.

  Slowly he leaned back. None of the men was Haake. He remained sitting this way for a long time. Suddenly he was terribly tired. Tired behind the eyes. It drifted upon him intermittently in uneven waves. The music, the rise and fall of the voices, the muffled noise cloaked him in a haze after the quiet of the hotel room, and the new disappointment. It was like a kaleidoscope of sleep, like a gentle hypnosis, enveloping the brain cells, their sketchy thoughts, and their tortured vigil.

  He saw Joan at some moment in the pale light-mist in which the dancing couples moved. Her open thirsty face was bent backward, her head close to a man’s shoulder. It did not touch him. No one can become more alien than a person one has loved once, he thought wearily. When the enigmatic umbilical cord between imagination and its object was torn, sheet lightning might still leap from one to the other, there might be fluorescence as if from ghostly stars; but it was dead light. It excited, but it no longer set fire—nothing any longer flowed to and fro. He leaned his head against the back of the banquette. The brief intimacy above abysses. The darkness of the sexes with all their sweet names. Star flowers on a bog which swallowed you up when you started to pick them.

  He straightened up. He had to get out before he fell asleep. He called the waiter. “Check, please.”

  “There is nothing to pay for,” the waiter said.

  “How is—”

  “You did not drink anything.”

  “Oh yes, that’s right.”

  He tipped the man and left.

  “No?” Morosow asked outside.

  “No,” Ravic replied.

  Morosow looked at him. “I give up,” Ravic said. “It is a damned laughable game of Indians. For five days now I’ve been waiting. Haake told me that he always stays for only two or three days in Paris. If that’s so then he must have left again by now. If he was here at all.”

  “Go to bed,” Morosow said.

  “I can’t sleep. Now I’ll drive back to the Prince de Galles, get my suitcase, and check out.”

  “All right,” Morosow said. “Then I’ll meet you tomorrow noon there.”

  “Where?”

  “In the Prince de Galles.”

  Ravic looked at him. “Yes, of course. I’m talking nonsense. Or am I? Maybe not.”

  “Wait until tomorrow night.”

  “All right. I’ll see. Good night, Boris.”

  “Good night, Ravic.”

  Ravic drove past the Osiris. He parked the car around the corner. The thought of going back to his room in the International made him shudder. Maybe he could sleep a few hours here. It was Monday. A quiet day for brothels. The doorman was no longer outside. Hardly anyone would still be in there.

  Rolande stood beside the door, keeping watch over the big room. The music box made a lot of noise in the almost empty place. “Nothing much going on tonight?” Ravic asked.

  “Nothing. Only that bore over there. Lascivious as a monkey, but he doesn’t want to go upstairs with a girl. You know the type. Would like to, but is afraid. Another German. Well, he has paid; it can’t take much longer.”

  Ravic looked indifferently toward the table. The man was sitting with his back to him. He had two girls with him. As he leaned toward one of them, taking both her breasts in his hands, Ravic saw his face. It was Haake.

  He heard Rolande speaking as if in a haze. He could not understand what she said. He realized only that he had stepped backward and was standing by the door now so that he could just see the corner of the table without being seen.

  Finally Rolande’s voice came through the haze. “Some cognac?�
��

  The squawking of the music box. Still the oscillation, the spasm in the diaphragm! Ravic dug his nails into his palm: Haake must not see him here. And Rolande must not notice that he knew him.

  “No,” he heard himself saying. “I’ve had enough. A German, you said? Do you know who he is?”

  “No idea.” Rolande shrugged her shoulders. “They all look alike to me. I think this one has never been here before. But don’t you want to have a drink?”

  “No. Only wanted to look in—”

  He felt Rolande’s eyes on him and forced himself to be calm. “I only wanted to hear when your party is,” he said. “Will it be Thursday or Friday?”

  “Thursday, Ravic. You are coming?”

  “I’ll be on time. That was all I wanted to know. Now I’ve got to go. Good night, Rolande.”

  “Good night, Ravic.”

  The lighted night, suddenly roaring. No buildings any more—a thicket of stone, a jungle of windows. Suddenly war again, a crawling patrol, along the empty street. The car, a shelter in which to take cover, the motor droning, lying in ambush for the enemy.

  Shoot him down when he comes out? Ravic looked along the street. A few cars, yellow lights, stray cats. Under a street lamp in the distance someone who looked like a policeman. His own license plate, the noise of the shot. Rolande, who had just seen him—he heard Morosow’s: “Risk nothing, nothing! It isn’t worth it.”

  No doorman. No taxi. Good. There were few fares on Mondays at this hour. The moment he had thought this, a Citroën taxi rattled past him, and stopped at the door. The driver lit a cigarette and yawned audibly. Ravic felt his skin contracting. He waited.

  He deliberated whether to step out and tell the driver that there was no longer anyone inside. Impossible. To send him away on some errand and pay him for it. To Morosow. He snatched a piece of paper out of his pocket, wrote a few lines, tore them up, wrote them again, Morosow should not wait for him at the Scheherazade, signed it with a fictitious name—

  The taxi went into gear and drove off. He stared after it, but could not see inside. He did not know whether Haake had stepped in while he had been writing. He went into first gear swiftly. The Talbot shot around the corner after the taxi.